A sonnet by John Keats

To one who has been long

in city pent

 ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair  And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayerFull in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart’s content,  Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair  

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening with

an ear

Catching the notes of Philomel . . .

An eye, watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career,

E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear  

That falls through the clear ether silently.

He mourns that day so soon has glided by